


Secret Admirer | Lover In the Dream

by susabei



Series: Seven Shades of Romance [3]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe - Non-Magical, Bisexual Draco Malfoy, Bisexual Harry Potter, Black Hermione Granger, British English, Community: Seven Shades of Drarry, Deity Harry Potter, Desi Harry Potter, Domesticity, Draco Malfoy is a hot mess, Fantasy Fulfillment, Fluff, Friendship, Gods and Goddesses, LGBT characters, M/M, POV Draco Malfoy, Polyamory, Romance, Secret Admirer, Trans Draco Malfoy, Tropes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-12
Updated: 2021-02-12
Packaged: 2021-03-17 02:53:25
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,615
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29343120
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/susabei/pseuds/susabei
Summary: Draco works at a museum cultivating highly ancient pieces of art with Pansy, ex-girlfriend and best friend. Newly unearthed treasures are sent to them both in their little lab where they clean up the manuscripts, slates, and statues of old gods and old religions. It’s a good job, if not lonely at times.And then Draco starts to dream about one of the gods: Harry.
Relationships: Harry Potter/Draco Malfoy, Hermione Granger/Pansy Parkinson, Minor or Background Relationship(s), Past Draco Malfoy/Pansy Parkinson - Relationship
Series: Seven Shades of Romance [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2153148
Comments: 5
Kudos: 77
Collections: Seven Shades of Drarry





	Secret Admirer | Lover In the Dream

**Author's Note:**

> This work is part of the Seven Shades of Romance anthology, the fourth in a series of collaborative projects within the [Seven Shades of Drarry](/collections/Seven_Shades_of_Drarry) collective.
> 
> Chosen tropes: Secret Admirer, Fantasy Fulfillment 
> 
> IIIIIII have recently become a part of the Seven Shades of Drarry Collective, which is where this piece came from. My first Drarry piece ever, so I hope it goes over well with such a well-established fanbase... Hello everyone!
> 
> There’s also a playlist created for this anthology that can be found [here on Spotify](https://spoti.fi/3tIY5TG); one song for each of the seven fics included in the collection.
> 
> Accompanying song: "A Case of You" by Joni Mitchell.

* * *

The cost of living is an afterthought to him, something which disgusted his classmates in university upon first meeting them (Ron still calls him  _ Posh Spice _ when he's feeling particularly bitter.) His dorm room was always comfortable and plush, the furniture having been replaced before the first day with post-modern designs (his Mother's doing, naturally), and the full fridge never empty (hired grocers are surprisingly hard to find). 

The cost of living is an afterthought to him, so naturally, his major is in Art History.

The arts were stressed in his household, growing up. His parents took him to a number of museums, performances, lectures, and the like in order to cultivate his artistic palette. It was his father who said, ‘My father studied politics and war so that I may study mathematics and philosophy so that  _ you _ may study the arts’[1], and Draco took those words very much to heart.

His job at the museum is cushy enough to gain some social status among art snobs and collectors, both of whom drive Draco mad because his parents’ house parties were filled with them growing up. Luckily, his friends all hate the same people he does, which cemented their friendship early: before they could figure out that Draco was a snob as well.

“There’s a reason ol’ Red there calls him Posh Spice,” Pansy had cackled, the group all out to drinks for the night.

Pansy’s his usual work partner, being one of the only ones to adapt to his workstream and logic, as well as being thick-skinned enough to take his harsh words and dish them back as well as he dealt (not that he was ever rude to Pansy; his mother taught him better than that.) Working with Ron or Hermione usually ended in a fight, and Neville was still a little too much of a pushover. Pansy was that perfect balance. A reason he’s kept her as a friend all this time.

"She stopped giving me extra mustard." He frowns into the plastic bag before him, referring to the takeout girl who always takes his order. "Do you think she's gotten over her crush on me, then?"

"She fancies  _ me, _ you plonker," Pansy says, not looking up from her work, "Must have seen the ring on my finger."

"Must have," Draco agrees, rolling his eyes playfully though his friend can't see him. "Why is it always you? Why can't someone as dashingly handsome as I receive the lovely affections of a takeout delivery girl?"

_ "You're a git," _ Pansy answers without hesitation, turning the knob on the side of the microscope to finesse the focus.

"Good to know you love me." He sets out the boxes of fried rice and noodles on the table behind Pansy, a good three metres away.

"I sucked your dick for four years; of course I love you." It's remarkable how crass she can be when it's just the two of them. If anyone else heard her speak like that, well…

" _ Only four? _ " He chuckles, setting out the sauce packets and plastic utensils. "You know if Hermione catches us eating in here so  _ carelessly _ , she'll fire us both."

"Ugh. Granger." Pansy sticks her tongue out between her teeth, a scowl sharp on her face.

"Must you always talk about your wife in such a way?" Draco tuts, relishing in the way his friend's shoulders stiffen instantly.

"Piss off." Pansy changes the slide in the microscope. "...You've RSVP'd already, right?"

"Mother raised a  _ timely git," _ Draco replies, self-satisfied. "She's terribly upset at me for not marrying you."

"Our play wedding from when we were five will have to be enough for dear Narcissa." Pansy yawns, finally switching the light on her microscope off and stretching. "You just can't handle a dick like Granger can."

"Ouch." Draco holds a hand to his chest, exaggerating his offense. "Giving or receiving?"

"Yes."

He laughs genuinely, "I'll be sure to up my game in time for my new beau."

Pansy blows a raspberry as she pushes off the floor, rolling over to the table on her chair. "You can't flirt worth shit, so it'll be pointless to try."

" _ I can too! _ " He serves her before himself, building up a plate of her favourites from childhood. "I got you, didn't I?"

" _ Had me, _ " Pansy corrects. "And it doesn't count. We grew up together; you never had to try."

"Pansy,  _ everyone _ has to try hard for you."

"It's not a crime to have high standards." She glances at her manicured nails. " _ You _ shouldn't be allowed to talk to women. Or men."

Draco slides her plate over to her before opening up her can of Mr Pibb, "Harsh. I'd like to think I have my charm."

She thanks him as she takes her drink from him. "You're a plonker who's fun to dominate."

"Hush, you." He begins to serve himself. "What if the boss heard you say such things to me? It would be an HR nightmare."

"Granger knows the deal," Pansy says with a snort. "Don't change the subject."

“Subjects change in a conversation, Pansy; don’t be ridiculous. It’s how natural banter works.”

She throws a wonton at him.

* * *

Hermione does, in fact, catch them eating when they shouldn’t be. She had smelled the food from her office down the hall and came stomping in, indignant and coiled hair astray. It’s only by the skin of their teeth they escape her wrath: Neville arrives with the newly shipped pieces from the archaeological site in Bangladesh. 

“ _ Already? _ ” Hermione gapes, hand pressed to her forehead. “We— We have to get started! There’s no time to waste. Oh!” She frets, flapping her hands and shaking her body. “We have to catalogue them immediately! Why are you just standing there? Neville!”

Pansy smirks from beside Draco, eternally amused at the sight. It lasts for about five seconds before Hermione begins to scold them again, this time for  _ not _ dropping everything to help document the antiquities. Pansy sticks her tongue out at Draco, who smirks at her.

Let it not be said that they do not enjoy or take their jobs seriously, however; setting aside their takeout and properly preparing the room for identification and cataloguing is a process they know well. It’s calming. Therapeutic. Cleaning away all mentions of what came just before to revel and admire the distant past.

"It's beautiful," Draco breathes, studying the binding, being overly delicate. Overly gentle.

"Oh, seven hells," Pansy chuckles. "I see you need a moment alone."

"Hush," Draco shushes, a smirk playing at his mouth. "You're as excited as I am."

"Only because this means Granger'll be excited enough to put out tonight."

Draco rolls his eyes.

The first codex dictates a few creation myths. The world being born from Death and destined to return to Death. Metaphors of a place of commercial transport, perhaps along a trade route or a place to park chariots. Ships. Other vessels…  _ Dragons, _ if the clay slates retrieved last year are to be believed. 

What really interests him are the Gods.

So remarkably human, like him. Stories and personalities that mirror his experience, that of his friends. Family.

"It says here that the God of War and his sister, the Goddess of War, were known for their red hair, war banners in the midst of battle."

Pansy cackles. "Show that one to fire-crotch; it'll inflate his ego."

Draco shakes his head, but he commits to the idea if only because he could spin it in a way that annoys Ron. "Her husband's a love God, it looks like. Isn't that odd?"

"Nah." Pansy yawns. "They were like that, these people. Juxtaposition got 'em hot and heavy. Blah blah blah, duality of man and all that."

"How eloquent." Draco smirks, "I can see why Hermione was wooed."

"Shut up, you plonker."

* * *

Draco doesn’t take any documents or artefacts home for study (despite his home office being fitted with the right equipment), but he does take several of the museum’s books on the ancient civilization said artefacts are from. 

An empire rivalling the Mongols at their height, spanning several countries, continents… Their pantheon is a varied one, with aspects of religion from the Malava Empire to the Celts. It’s fascinated him since he was a child, the mystery behind this lost civilization. Why it collapsed. 

And Draco likes looking at the illustrations of the gods in the book. The brushwork of mid-to-late 17th-century artists is  _ superb. _

He doesn't wear shoes in his flat because his grandmother's family taught his father about the rules of cleanliness from their part of the globe. But also because it's a guilty pleasure of his to kick off his shoes unceremoniously and slide around in his dress socks. The mere thought of it would drive his mother into an early grave, he knows. It's why he keeps a handy pair of luxury slippers by his doorstep for when she drops by (hardly ever unannounced, unless she wants to catch him with his metaphorical pants dropped). 

He hangs his keys rather than use the ceramic bowl that Pansy made him on her pottery date with Hermione ('It does  _ not _ look like a whoopee cushion!'), choosing to drop his loose change in it instead. The coins clatter in a small pile as he shrugs off his coat, clearing his throat and sighing. Home is becoming more and more reclutive[2] the closer he delves into winter. The flat is lucky enough to have south-facing windows, but it's not enough for the long winter nights where it grows dark at three in the afternoon. Artificial light would be an option, but it just looks too sad. Too repulsive. He feels withered. A flower without love.

But enough of his shitty poetry; that's reserved for his diary and drunk voicemails to ex-girlfriends (he's apologised to Milicent multiple times, and she understands, maybe.) Draco sits in his favourite armchair and mulls over the poetry of this passed empire, absorbing the lacey words of family and love. Protection and heroism. 

He doesn’t need a social life when he has this.

* * *

When the dreams start, they are of softness. Layers of silk and satin gliding across his skin like sheets of air. Teasing and filigree and gossamer. He wants more of it. To press himself into the fabrics and wrap himself in them. To fashion an outfit fit for a prince. 

The sheets turn into hands, smooth and dark. Olive-toned and callused. Gentle. Loving. Safe. He's never felt safer in all his life, not as a child, not as an adult. Within the dream, he cries. He cries, and it's good. It's wonderful. It's everything he's ever wanted.

The dreams are all indulgent; he cherishes them and looks forward to them. Perhaps a little too much. It’s the most attention, the most affection, he’s gotten in a long time. All from an imaginary lover he cannot assign a real face to. And maybe that’s better. The lover in the dream could be anyone. Someone in the past, his present, a distant future. Whoever he needs. Always familiar. Always known.

It’s nothing to worry about. It’s simply a sign that, for once, his subconscious is being kind to him. Tending to him gently and tenderly, an apology for how stressed he’s been these past few months. An apology for making him feel like his body isn’t his own on his worst days. To have this lovely dream worship his body as he’s always wanted.

It is absolutely nothing to worry about. Just harmless fantasies...

And then one day when he wakes from a dream, he is in the arms of a very attractive stranger.

“Hello,” the stranger says to Draco, handsome and lovely. Attentive and protective.

Draco screams. Yelps. It is very unmasculine, and he is not quite yet secure enough in his masculinity to admit to it. The stranger seems surprised. Puzzled. Perhaps offended. That Draco would think to scream in his arms. To want to be away from him. As if that were the stupidest thing in the world. Against every instinct.

Draco hates that he wants to agree.

He can't even ask him ‘ _ who are you?’ _ because somehow he knows. He matches it. The aged, faded depiction. Burnt sienna skin, disorderly ink-black hair, vivid green eyes, and a bold, dramatic white scar thundering across his forehead in the shape of a lightning bolt.

_ Christ, _ he’s going mad.

* * *

The dream. The clear hallucination, because this  _ cannot _ be happening—it doesn’t stop there. The vision follows Draco. Around the apartment as he cleans, at the museum while he files documents, at the pharmacist when he picks up his hormones. Blurry. Like the clay slabs he studies in the lab. A work of art seen through a filter. Through etched glass.

It gains a louder, clearer voice the more he examines the newly attained lot. And it’s not real. The deep, boyishly charming voice is nothing but a figment of his stressed mind. Perhaps he’s inherited some of that famed madness from his mother’s family, and it was only just manifesting. As fast as it can. To make up for lost time.

It’s not always there, his special dream. Only when he’s alone does  _ he _ stand in Draco’s periphery. How convenient. To not be able to confirm the reality of something strange. To wonder if one is going absolutely bat-shit loony.

The dream doesn’t always try to talk to him, though that does seem like its natural course of action. Usually, it’s preoccupied with attempting to move objects around the apartment or area that Draco is in. This is another piece of evidence that he’s going mad: if it were real, wouldn’t it be able to knock items down? The only things it seems to be able to touch are items close to Draco in some way: his favourite pen, his keys, a photo of his parents. He’s not sure what this means, if anything, but it unnerves him when the dream finally manages to move something: his grandmother’s wedding ring. Given to him on her deathbed, when he was still dressing in frocks and ribbons.

“...”

Draco snatches the ring up and locks it in his safe.

* * *

The dream’s image clarifies a week later. Becomes sharp and focused. As strange a change as when Draco gets a new prescription for his glasses.

It stands proud, short for a man, in the middle of Draco’s living room. Expecting something. A greeting?

“Er,” Draco clears his throat, wondering if maybe he should continue to ignore the dream. “Hullo?”

The dream,  _ a dreamboat, _ if he were being honest, nods at him. “You are ready to acknowledge me.”

Ready is definitely not the right word. But Draco doesn’t say that. The dream continues speaking.

“I’ve been watching”—there’s no real embarrassment or shame in his voice—“as gods do.”

“As gods do,” Draco repeats, none too amused, sceptical as all hell, hoping he still has enough bourbon to stop his shaking.

“You are like me.”

_ Mmm. What the fuck? _ “No, I’m fairly sure I’m no celestial being.”

A chuckle, it seeps into Draco’s ears like sweet tea. “No. You are not.” The god lifts his callused hand as if to brush a strand of hair behind Draco’s ear, “You know me.”

“Not personally.” Hermione would have snapped at his rudeness towards the god, but he has a feeling if he told her about this, that she wouldn’t exactly believe him. “Through third parties.”

The phrase doesn’t seem to connect, but the god continues, looking curious. “You’ve studied my scripture. You know who I am.”

Draco gulps. “Hari.”

A blink. And then a hearty laugh, full and loud and completely filled with joy. Draco flushes—Did he pronounce it wrong?

“Actually,” the god stops, resting a hand on his own chest, “it’s just Harry.”

* * *

It’s beginning to become increasingly obvious that he’s being hit on by an ancient god. A very fascinating, very attractive, ancient god. He spends his time remarking on Draco’s mannerisms and appearance in a way that would make him melt were the situation different (and maybe the situation  _ isn’t _ so different, he’s been needy for months, but for fuck’s sake—)

"You’re married,” Draco states, aghast and affronted at the god’s audacity.

Harry’s expression turns fond, “Yes, Ginevra: fierce goddess of war and sport. The youngest of the seven heralds of Hogwarts. We married under a blood moon at her coming of age.” A sage nod. “She has her lover in Luna, goddess of dreams and invention, who lives in the light of the moon.”

The words spoken feel rehearsed. As if Harry were reciting an olden song or epic, explaining the story of him and his wife. So much new information to uncover about this civilization. The name of his wife, her birth order, a new god previously unknown along with her function,  _ polyamory as a norm. _

“Do you know your own myths? Legends? Can you recite them for me?” Hermione would  _ kill  _ him if he wasted this opportunity, not to mention he’s very much out of practice in regards to flirting (anything to distract from his terrible nerves—if Pansy were here, she’d bloody well make fun of him.)

Another blink, the look of a god bemused is one he will not soon forget. “Is this a part of your courting custom?” 

* * *

Hermione  **will** kill him if he doesn't sit the young god down for an interview. Of course, he's unsure of how he would tell her of these series of odd events, but he's sure that'll come secondary. Cross the bridge when he gets there and all that.

"Start…" Draco licks his lips, mind rushing at the significance of this. Of having a ridiculously attractive deity sitting on the chaise his mother picked out for him (his mother would be revolted that he hasn't offered any refreshments or amenities.) "Start after the slaying of your parents, the Golden Ones, please."

Harry raises his chin, the act appearing regal, but curious and boyish in its undertones. "I was cast from the heavens by the Dark One and raised by my mortal relatives, kin of my mother," he recites, sounding tired. Old. As if recounting a story that brought him great sorrow, rather than a glorious myth of triumph. Draco can't blame the poor bloke, considering it happened to  _ him. _ In the short time he's known Harry, he's concluded that Gods feel very intensely.

The story told from there fills in many of the blanks in the pottery and manuscripts. At around the time Harry was told of his destiny as a god and protector of the realms of the living, Draco stops writing, transfixed, leaving his pen and paper forgotten. How could he write down something like this? Something so personal and deeply painful to publish to the world? Imagine if all of his rantings to his therapist over the years had some sort of cultural or historical significance… God. He'd fling himself off the nearest building if someone had published his hurt like that. His tragedies and sorrows.

Could he do that to Harry? To another person? Though he wasn't technically a person, even as he breathes before him. Just how did that body work, anyways? Could he do all that a human of his age and apparent health should be able to do? Eat, breathe, cough, copulate? Breed? He supposes that's how Demi-Gods were birthed, but he had only begun to scratch the surface of that document.

After the slaying of Harry's adopted father and sometime before the Wild War of Realms, Draco carries a glass of Riesling in his hands, cradled (again, his mother's disgust clear in his mind) in his palm like a lapdog. Harry has some as well, untouched, if only because he is busy talking. Draco wonders if he's able to even get drunk off human alcohol because he knows from the inscriptions on a decanter back at the museum that the nectar of the Gods was said to be the most exquisite of all elixirs. 

He thinks it would taste like Sauvignon Blanc. 

Somewhere, between his marriage to Ginevra and the adoption of Remus’ son, Harry manages to make Draco relax. Laugh. Sink into his couch. Drink more of his wine. Half the bottle. Two bottles.

It occurs to him, then, that he's not drinking alone. Harry has emptied a few of his own glasses as well. When did he do that? Draco hadn't noticed. He was too busy listening… Looking… Admiring…

He's felt like this before. In college, when he roomed with Blaise. They spent hours at night talking, looking at each other. Comparing mothers. Fathers (in Blaise's case, father  _ figures _ ). The darkness they shared, the intimacy that Draco had thought he'd never feel again after Pansy…

Blaise was good.  _ Is  _ good. He accepted Draco as a man without prejudice. He’s a successful owner of a string of nightclubs in a handful of metropolises. Draco is good too. He's a loving and much-loved exhibitor and curator. Examiner. Historian. 

Harry is… Different. In a good way. A beautiful escape from his life. 

His special secret.

* * *

A problem arises when Draco insists that Harry  _ stay _ in the flat no matter what. To never answer the door, or even come out in the open when Draco opens the door. To avoid the windows and ignore the phone. Act like he doesn’t exist.

“I spent my childhood in darkness,” Harry starts, indignant and filled with righteousness. “I will not be locked up again. For what reason do I have to stay here?”

Draco looks upon the quite literal  _ glowing _ god. His ethereal gaze, splendid skin, comforting aura. Any and every idiot would know he wasn’t human. Even the biggest sceptic. At best, they’d assume some sort of show was being recorded for a film. Practical effects and illusions (and  _ that _ was ignoring the physical feeling of peace that one got upon laying eyes on Harry). At worst…

“You’re not exactly easy to miss.” Draco wonders if the other is playing stupid or if maybe he really is that absent-minded. Then again, he supposes that gods who walked among humans  _ wanted _ to be recognised as gods. Back when that was more common.

“You’re ashamed of me?” It might be Draco’s ego, but Harry sounds almost hurt.

“I’m just not sure what people would do if they knew gods were real.” Especially gods from outside modern practices.

Harry looks confused for a moment but then nods. “All right.” It’s the first time he’s taken Draco’s word for anything. And at first, the blond is about to sigh in relief that the too-curious-for-his-own-good god was going to stay in the flat, but the sigh quickly turns into an intake of breath as he grows confused. Why is Harry standing up from his seat?

The god takes a trinket nearby, something brought as an afterthought at a gift shop a few years back when he and his parents were visiting Blackpool, and seizes it fiercely. Tightly. A powerful light emitting from his palm as if he had captured the sun in his hand. The glow grows, consuming and spreading over his body as a snake consumes prey. Harry loses his godly aura. Becomes solid. Grounded. His feet touch the ground suddenly, slamming against Draco's polished floors (dear lord, he can hear his mother groan about the cost of those floors) with a resounding and firm thump. Harry's hair no longer seems to flow on its own as if it were submerged. His eyes, once so vibrantly green that they looked back-lit, are human. Though no less captivating.

Draco is staring.

"Will this do?"

"Fuck." Draco replies, gobsmacked.

* * *

The human vessel for Harry is still short, though no longer regal and imposing. If anything, he looks very unassuming and scrappy. The type of person that you’d brush over if seen on the tube. Or at a park.  _ Moreso _ with the ill-fitting clothing on his form. Draco and Harry are  _ not _ the same size, but the latter certainly couldn’t be walking outside with his traditional robes—people would think he was part of some sort of cult (or on his way to a LARP session). 

Harry wears an old  _ Wham! _ t-shirt given to Draco by Hermione, spattered with paint and an old soy sauce stain from the summer he and the group attempted to help her re-paint her flat. She stated his hair matched one of the pop singers’ on the shirt, and that was when he decided to get a haircut.

Upon hearing this story, Harry laughs. Imperfectly. “There’s so much love here.” He raises his hand to his chest, and for a moment, Draco doesn’t think he’s talking about the shirt. “I can feel it. It’s sort of… soaked in the fibres. The love you carry with your friends.” His smile is one Draco could get drunk on. “I would like some of it. From you.”

Shit, he really needs to stop staring at this literal deity; it really wouldn’t work out. “God of all forms of love, then?”  _ All _ forms, if the… erotic clay figurines were to be believed.

Harry nods, walking in step with him and staring at the buildings like a tourist. “From the love you carry for your mum to the love you have for your last lover.”

A brow is raised at this.

“I know,” Harry’s voice is casual, “about every person you’ve ever loved.” He looks at some of the pedestrians out and about and begins pointing. “And every person he’s loved, they’ve loved, she’s loved.” What an utter lack of privacy. If Harry hadn’t told Draco his own history, he might have been more scandalised about it all.

“It’s how I know,” his companion says matter-of-factly, “that the way you love will fit right with me.”

* * *

Harry doesn’t go with Draco to work. Draco would never be able to explain bringing in a complete stranger near such important reliquaries, and if he tried to tell Hermione the truth, he’s certain it wouldn’t end well.

Instead, Harry lingers in the actual galleries and displays, eyes running over artefacts and images long past from his own peoples. From others. Every once in a while, when Draco goes to check on him, he’s standing (staring) at a slab or a textile and pressing his hand over the glass separating him from it. As if there were a lover or his child on the other side. Something precious.

“It’s still there,” he explains to Draco upon being taken out to lunch. “All the love these people gave to each other in these items. It’s still there.”

It would be a lie to claim that Draco completely understands; some of those items’ uses are still unknown to them. That slab could have said any number of things: a receipt, a complaint, a birth record. The shirt Harry wears is understandable, but a piece of cutlery from 400 BCE…

When Draco brings this up with him, though, the god only smiles and shakes his head. Smiles and takes some of Draco’s fried tofu from his plate. Smiles and offers some of his own yellow curry for him to eat.

The sharing of food is sacred in his culture. Intimate. Draco has read a number of poems equating the act to something sensual. When Harry holds up a spoonful of salmon, Draco coughs roughly, looking around to see if anyone is looking before taking the bite.

“Love is in all acts. Even the mundane.”

Draco chews and swallows and doesn’t argue with Harry about the topic.

* * *

Draco tries teaching Harry how to cook— _ re- _ teaching him, as he’s long forgotten since his stint as a mortal on earth, eons ago. And even so, the technology is much different, the spices more variable. Draco introduces Harry to chocolate and gets a delightful reaction. 

What’s making the event even more noteworthy is that no one has ever taught Draco how to cook. Hermione and Ron tried once, on a rainy afternoon with Pansy critiquing every step in the background. They had gotten as far as teaching him how to handle the stove before accidentally incinerating one of Ron’s god-awful sweaters.

He tells this story as he instructs Harry on the knobs and markings on that same stove, pointing out the soot marks on the hood above them. Harry’s laughter doesn’t glow as it did when he was still divine. It’s warm, like honey. Charming in the same way a scrappy labrador is. Or an old mug with a chip in it. Something loved. How fitting.

“How are you going to teach me when you don’t know anything yourself?”

If Draco’s being honest with himself, it’s because he wants an excuse to touch him. But he’s not about to admit that. “So we can learn together,  _ obviously. _ ”

Harry mulls over this answer for a moment. “How wonderfully human.”

Draco isn't used to something being described as human being a compliment. Growing up, he had to be perfect. Right alongside his whole family. To make mistakes in front of Harry, this god, is something strange. Against the grain. What would his mother say? Something fierce, surely. Narcissa Malfoy would never be so easily charmed by this young god as her son is.

He thinks he could live with said god every day for the rest of his life. A domestic fantasy that seems to become more possible with each passing day.

* * *

“Did Luna send you?” Draco starts, wondering if it was appropriate for him (a mortal by birth) to acknowledge a celestial being by their given name. “You said she was a goddess of dreams.”

Harry doesn’t blush, his skin is too dark, but he certainly smiles sheepishly. Rubs the back of his head as a flustered teenager would do. Something his godly self would have surely never done. “Yes, actually.”

This revelation can mean any number of things. Draco wants to stick to his line of questioning, but he’s not at work! He’s at home, cosy, with a beautiful man. Would it really be so bad to try and tease Harry further?

Absolutely not.

“Your… wingwoman?” The modern phrases of humanity were fun to teach Harry, as he found all of them absurd and delightful.

But instead of amusement, something grows cold in Harry’s features. His lips relax, thinning and tugging down as his eyes avoid contact with Draco’s. “... Luna is frighteningly observant… she saw loneliness in me… a little bit of me in you… Do you understand?”

And Draco does understand. The look on Harry’s face: the tremble of his lower lip, the rapid blinking, the stiffness in his jaw. Draco saw it too, on his own face. For far too long.

“You know I’m…” Draco hasn’t brought it up yet, because well… Harry was  _ watching _ him. He assumed that meant in his more… private times as well. “I believe there are a few similar terms in your culture, but none exactly like the one I’m using today.” It’s his turn to grow a little emotional. Vulnerable. He hates it.

“I know.” Harry grasps Draco’s hand in his. “My son’s mum, Nymphadora _ , _ she transforms her body and soul as she sees fit, while Edward himself is neither man nor woman.” The concept is common amongst many religions, and yet Draco is still surprised. “My wife’s eldest brother was believed to be a woman before he kindly corrected us.” Draco swallows the emotion building up in his throat, his hands are shaking. “Even Luna was born Sol, the brightest star in our world, before she found herself in the moon.” Another smile, full of affection, “Maybe she saw herself in you, too.”

A divine being identifying with Draco is a little more than he can bear. The tears well up in him, and Harry, true to his purpose as a god, comforts: arms wrapping around Draco’s form so carefully, he feels he’s being treated like silk. “ _ It’s okay, _ ” Harry says, and when he says it, Draco believes it. Wholeheartedly. With more faith than he’s ever put in anything else in his life.

“You are very loved.” His words feel so sturdy. Capable of withstanding the world. “The people at your work: the reliable redhead you pretend to hate, the meek blond you share comfortable silences with, the big-haired nervous wreck who’s always there to guide you, the petite coworker always calling you a plonker—” A chuckle from Harry as Draco laughs through his tears. “—they all love you. I want to be a part of them. I…I want to be allowed to love you too.”

Draco gives a shuttering sigh, tears and snot dripping over Harry’s (Draco’s, really) poor t-shirt. 

Their hands clasp together. Fingers threading tightly. “I’m not… I’m not a god. I won’t live forever. I’ll age. You… You’ll have to turn back eventually, right?”

Harry’s body shakes as he laughs softly. “I forgot how good it felt to be human. To be just Harry.” A hum. “My aunt and her family, they… tainted the experience for me.” Bitterness. Resignation. “I’ll keep this body. If you’d like. Bleed with it, grow with it, worship with it.”

It feels like so much to ask. Too much. “I do like you better like this.” Harry as a full-on god, while incredibly sexy, wasn’t… It wasn’t what he wanted. Not really.

“Mm,” Harry agrees. “I can’t say it’ll be easy.”

“All relationships have their problems,” Draco mutters, suddenly afraid that Harry will try to back out of this commitment to loving him.

“I really do have a lot to relearn… You’ll help me?”

Draco squeezes his hand in response.

When they wake, their hands are still intertwined. Moreso. Fingers laced. Threaded. Bonded.

* * *

**Author's Note:**

> [1] “I must study politics and war, that our sons may have liberty to study mathematics and philosophy. Our sons ought to study mathematics and philosophy, geography, natural history and naval architecture, navigation, commerce and agriculture in order to give their children a right to study painting, poetry, music, architecture, statuary, tapestry and porcelain.” - John Adams.
> 
> [2] Reclutive is a word I made up, meaning ‘a space, action, or object that incites a person to be reclusive.’ Because if Shakespeare can make up words, so can I.
> 
> I have a page full of background lore for this pantheon if anyone’s interested, hehe. If you enjoyed this fic, please consider reading my other Harry Potter works :) I’m susabei on AO3 and Sandungera on FF.net
> 
> And yes, Hermione is autistic coded.
> 
> Thanks to the Drarry Collective for inviting me in the first place as a reserve. Oh! and beta-ing my fic, it really needed it!! :) It's been so welcoming and fun to write in a club/community, and it's my first fic dedicated to a ship I'm really fond of, so thanks for the excuse to write it :)
> 
> This work is part of the Seven Shades of Romance anthology, a series of Drarry fics inspired by the romantic spirit of Valentine’s Day.
> 
> There’s also a playlist created for this anthology that can be found [here on Spotify](https://spoti.fi/3tIY5TG); one song for each of the seven fics included in the collection.


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